


The Great Detective Is Not So Great After All

by balthazar_in_221B



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Drug Use, Overdose, season three?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 09:57:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/balthazar_in_221B/pseuds/balthazar_in_221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I saw a post on tumblr about how Sherlock had nicotine patches on at John's wedding, and how he was back on drugs, and this just sorta happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great Detective Is Not So Great After All

The day after the wedding, John goes to visit Sherlock in 221B.

He gives a cursory smile and greeting to Mrs Hudson. She nods at him, and says,  
"He's upstairs." before bustling back into her small flat.  
John walked up the stairs to his former home. Walking in, he was surprised to see Sherlock was not in the kitchen, cooking up a new experiment, but the flat was silent. John glanced at his watch, perplexed; Sherlock was not one for morning, but neither did he sleep in until three pm. It suddenly strikes him that maybe Sherlock is in danger; but Mrs Hudson had said he was here, so what could he possibly be doing..?

Survival instincts kicking in, John starting moving very quietly, checking every room for Sherlock. He obviously was not downstairs, so he cautiously tiptoed down the short hallway to Sherlock's bedroom. Opening the door a crack, all he saw was an empty room; however, the bed was unmade and rumpled, Sherlock's drawers flung open. And the en suite bathroom door was closed.

John slowly approached the bathroom door, and grasped the cold door handle gently. He opened the door, and found Sherlock.

Well, he found his corpse. John didn't know how long Sherlock was there, he didn't know how Mrs Hudson hadn't noticed, he didn't know anything. All he could feel was the overwhelming grief ripping through his chest as his legs gave out underneath him. He heard strange, strangled sobs echoing in the room, and it took him a while to figure out it was him making the noise. All he could do was crawl closer to Sherlock, to hold his cold, dead hand, as he took in the sight of the once great detective, sprawled on the bathroom floor, a needle jutting out of his forearm.


End file.
